Highwayman
by zero
Summary: Certainly Spike hadn't only fought two Slayers before meeting Buffy... and surely he wasn't always so very, very good at it...


TITLE: Highwayman  
AUTHOR: zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)  
SUMMARY: Certainly Spike hadn't only fought two Slayers before meeting  
Buffy... and surely he wasn't always so very, very good at it...  
DISTRIBUTION: My site (www.zeroimpact.com) and FanFiction.net; if you  
want to archive it on your own fiction site, please just email and ask.  
RATING: PG-13 for violence  
DISCLAIMER: Spike belongs to Joss, even though he chipped him. For  
shame!  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is obviously set in Spike's past; it'll make a  
lot more sense if you've seen "Fool for Love". Thanks to Slade and Sandy  
for beta'ing this for me, and Doug Petrie for being such an inspiring  
fella. Please send feedback, it's as essential to life as chocolate.  
  
  
HIGHWAYMAN  
by zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)  
  
The horse's breath plumed steadily in the night air, puffing from the  
animal's nostrils in a thin cloud of white, floating upward, outward,  
and dissipating. The mare shifted her weight slightly, from one side to  
the other, and stretched out one muscular foreleg, pawing lightly at the  
ground to work the stiffness from the limb.  
  
"I know," her rider whispered. He reached down to absently stroke her  
bent neck, his fingers carding through well-brushed mane. "I do admit  
I'm weary of waiting, myself. But she'll come, don't you fret. She'll be  
here soon enough."  
  
The worn dirt road over which he held his vigil was marked by the deep  
twin grooves of wagon wheels. The thin trickles of water which had  
traversed those furrows when he'd first arrived had slowly frozen  
completely as the night had grown deeper and the temperatures colder.  
Twisted winter trees crowded close about the trail, and though their  
branches were barren, they also provided a tight-knit screen of trunks  
and twigs which created his hiding place.  
  
Abandoning his watch of the road for a moment, Spike cast his eyes  
skyward, searching for signs of dawn. It was still hours off, and he had  
plenty of time, but he had hoped not to wait all night. It wasn't that  
he minded the cold, but the full, ripe moon and sharp, still air  
appealed to a part of him that he'd thought murdered and gone. The part  
that composed dreadful sonnets and unskilled verse. He adjusted his  
position in the saddle again, stretching his heels down and  
straightening his back, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand. If  
he allowed his thoughts free reign, he'd no doubt find himself casting  
about for a word that rhymed with "transplendency".  
  
He sighed, leaning forward over the mare's neck to survey the road  
again, listening closely for the panting breaths of an overworked horse,  
the creak of a harness and call of a coachman, signaling the approach of  
a wagon. But no such noises came, and the night remained still, quiet,  
and dead. No owls called out, no creatures scuttled through the  
underbrush, and the horse standing patiently beneath his weight seemed  
to be the only living creature in the world. He watched its breath turn  
to mist before its nose, oddly fascinated by this small sign of life  
which he'd once exhibited himself.  
  
It hadn't been so long ago that he'd died. He still breathed, too, more  
reflex than anything. But his body didn't hold the heat it once had, and  
mist no longer leaked from his mouth with every exhalation. Sometimes,  
he thought that he must not exist at all, when the body of a horse, such  
a simple creature, could do things that he could not.  
  
Of course, he mused, horses possessed many talents which he himself was  
lacking. He was stronger now than he'd ever been, but a horse could  
still pull more weight, jump higher, run faster. A horse could, through  
the simple act of *being*, of standing still and looking docile, entice  
all sorts of women to fawn over it, to stroke and touch its skin and  
admire its form...  
  
He scowled, lips drawing back from his teeth into a distasteful grimace.  
He'd decided a week ago that he was through with women. Through with  
their lace and corsets, with their powder and perfume, with the whole  
process of catering to a fickle creature's whims. The only female in his  
life now was his horse, and he was happiest on his own. He'd never  
needed Darla or Angelus or even Drusilla, anyway. All their promises of  
eternal life and endless glory were broken and shattered dreams, left to  
rot in a mine shaft when they'd abandoned him there, taken flight  
without him, and left him to fend for himself. He'd known where they  
were going, of course, and they'd expected him to follow, like a kicked  
dog, slinking home to lick at their hands and beg their forgiveness for  
whatever harm he'd caused.  
  
But he hadn't done it. Instead, he'd boarded a boat and headed across  
the Channel to some little Slavic country whose name he couldn't  
pronounce and whose language he couldn't speak, just to make his mark on  
the world. He had his pride now; he had his hard-earned reputation for  
cruelty, and he'd left the foppish poet behind. He wouldn't crawl. Never  
again. Soon, every dark and dirty creature would know his name, the name  
he'd chosen for himself and carved out with a railroad spike. Soon those  
who'd fancied themselves superior to him would be the ones on their  
knees.  
  
Soon.  
  
His fantasies of his hero's homecoming were vividly produced by his  
overactive imagination. He pictured himself swaggering confidently  
through the stately doors of the house in London, waving off Angelus'  
smirk, heading straight for the bedrooms where he'd find Drusilla, naked  
and ready to welcome him home, slinking across the floor on hands and  
knees, bowing low and telling him that anything he wanted, she would  
give...  
  
When sound broke the utter stillness of the night, it took him a moment  
to emerge from the waking dream and realize what was happening. Then the  
fantasy flew apart, dissipated like the horse's breath, and was gone,  
revealing again the frozen woods, the dark of night, and the moonlit  
path. And down the road, to his right, the sound of a lash in motion and  
the rumble of rapidly approaching hoofbeats.  
  
He risked a glance out, calculating the distance and quietly tugging a  
pistol from his waistband, loading it as he'd seen other men do. He'd  
never been taught to use a gun -- he was coming to discover that he'd  
not been taught a great many things that would have been useful to know  
-- but he could wield it menacingly enough, and hope that he wouldn't  
have to shoot it. It would be damaging to his sinister reputation if his  
own gun were to explode in his hand.  
  
He clutched both reins in his right hand, exerting a slight pressure on  
the bit to keep the mare from bolting out onto the road too soon. She'd  
already sensed the change in the air, and was now stirring impatiently  
beneath him, eager to dash into the fray. He waited just a moment  
longer, then sharply dug in his heels, pushing his excited steed into  
the path of the oncoming coach.  
  
He saw the driver's eyes widen, and the man hauled back on his reins,  
having nowhere to go but forward on this road, hemmed in closely by the  
trees. His shouted curse and panicked eyes nearly made Spike flinch  
back; nearly made him push with his knee to urge the mare away before  
they were crushed. But the coach shuddered to a stop, and the alarmed  
animal which pulled it stood with its flaring nostrils only centimeters  
from his leg. The pistol in his outstretched hand wavered only slightly  
at the close call, but the coachman didn't seem to notice that. He did  
notice the gun, however, and quickly came to the proper conclusion,  
dropping his reins and thrusting his heavily gloved hands into the air.  
His face was ruddy with cold and fear, and his eyes rolled in terror  
just like those of his panting horse.  
  
One of the coach's doors slammed open, and an older gentleman stumbled  
out, clad in an expensive suit and sporting a thick, carefully  
maintained mustache. He began speaking to the driver, rapid and angry in  
some heavily inflected language that Spike didn't understand, but his  
eye quickly caught sight of the armed rider blocking the road, and his  
voice trailed off, leaving his mouth hanging open like a gaping fish.  
  
"You speak English, Dandy?" Spike asked. He turned the pistol's muzzle  
toward the new arrival, for good measure.  
  
A moment's silence, then the other man seemed to pull himself together  
enough to reply. "Of course I do," he said, his voice thick with an  
upper-class English accent. "And you'd best be on your way, scoundrel,  
or there shall be a heavy price to pay for stopping this coach."  
  
Spike laughed, short and sharp, wondering whether the Dandy was planning  
on scolding him to death. "I only want your valuables, mate, then you  
can carry on your merry way," he said.  
  
"We carry none," the Dandy replied. "I will not warn you again; if you  
do not desist, then you gamble with your life."  
  
And that was when, as if to drive that point home, the coach's other  
occupant stepped out onto the moonlit path, one hand -- no doubt the one  
holding her stake -- hidden behind her back, the other resting on her  
companion's arm, a silent signal for him to draw behind her.  
  
"He has no life," she said, the words tinged by a heavy Slavic accent.  
Her hand dropped from behind her back, revealing the expected stake, and  
she faced Spike with a scowl on her face. "I cannot see his breath in  
the air."  
  
Spike smiled a wolf's smile full of teeth, and didn't even try to  
repress it as he tossed the pistol carelessly toward the trees. "That'd  
be the valuable to which I was referring," Spike told the Dandy,  
chuckling. "Sharp little thing, she is." He swung easily down from the  
saddle and left his horse where it stood, still blocking the road. His  
eyes roamed over the girl's form with unveiled appraisal, taking in the  
dark, limp hair, the flashing black eyes, and the strong grip on the  
stake. "Clearly you possess assets of all kinds," he finally continued,  
seemingly satisfied with his casual inspection of her body. "It almost  
seems a shame to kill you."  
  
He was surprised when she lowered her free hand to the waist of her  
unwieldy dress -- high English fashion -- and quickly separated the  
bottom of it from her body, revealing the well-worn riding breeches and  
high leather boots that had been concealed beneath her skirts. She  
tossed the bulky skirt aside, and with her body free of encumbering  
garments, didn't hesitate a moment longer. Stake still in hand, she  
lunged toward Spike, her face set hard and deadly with determination.  
  
Death had made Spike fast, and he didn't waste a moment, either; his own  
hand dropped to his thigh, and the large hunting knife strapped there.  
The well-carved handle fit perfectly into his palm, and the blade  
gleamed in the dim light of a suddenly clouded moon. This was a weapon  
he knew, one that he'd never needed Angelus to teach him; its use was  
like a primal memory of man, buried deeply in his brain all his life,  
then released along with so much other wicked knowledge, with that first  
flood of crimson down his throat. The railroad spikes were nestled away  
in his saddlebag, but he'd decided to save those for later, once he had  
her mewling at his feet...  
  
Her attack was simple and direct, but his evasion did not contain a  
similar economy of motion; he slipped off to the side, knife still in  
hand, and took a wild swipe at her with the blade as he stumbled away.  
On her second pass, she didn't make things so simple; she dashed toward  
him again without pause, legs flying in a rapid, complex, violent flurry  
of kicks, most of which impacted painfully. She followed up with a  
stake, and if he hadn't stumbled back just so from that last blow, the  
weapon would've found its mark. It arced past his shoulder instead, and  
he rolled clumsily away, seeking distance to plan his attack. But she  
followed, relentless, and he quickly realized what a fool he'd been to  
try this at all, wondering if he'd even escape with his unlife,  
wondering what had possessed him to think that he could take on any  
Slayer when even Angelus would never attempt it.  
  
It was sheer, dumb luck that handed him the advantage, and the same dumb  
luck that saved his life.  
  
Her foot slipped into one of the ruts in the road, the narrow sort worn  
in by the repeated passing of wheels. She might have simply pulled her  
foot out and continued the fight, but the sliver of ice at the bottom  
made her slip, made her stumble, and there was a loud crunch of bone as  
the sole of her boot caught on the shallow edges of that dip. She fell  
backwards, crying out like a wounded bird as her ankle twisted  
painfully, and she landed heavily with her back against a dark tree  
trunk.  
  
Spike smiled again, pleased with this turn of events, and glanced behind  
him to wave the knife at the Slayer's companion, who had started forward  
with a cross in his hands.  
  
"I wouldn't do that if you like your guts inside your body," Spike  
warned. His yellowed eyes regarded the old man coolly, then turned back  
to the wounded Slayer, who cursed at him in that foreign tongue again,  
trying to push herself to her feet, involuntary tears streaming down her  
cheeks.  
  
"That's a bit disappointing," the vampire complained, pouting a bit. "Of  
course, I won't tell anyone that you practically killed yourself.  
Where's the fun in that?" He waved the knife, moving closer, finally  
crouching in front of her with the weapon's sharp tip held to the girl's  
throat. "Don't worry, Slayer," he whispered, forcing her chin up with  
the blade, forcing her to look him in the eye. "I'll tell everyone that  
you fought very hard, but... well, there's just no standing against  
Spike."  
  
Her eyes did meet his, finally, still defiant, but he saw the darker  
things lurking behind her face. There was something else lurking  
underneath the anger and the pain and the fear, and he paused for a  
moment, regarding her intently, trying to determine what exactly that  
enigmatic expression might be.  
  
He finally decided that she had seen Death so often that she knew it on  
intimate terms; she'd let down her guard to it, and invited it in now  
like an old friend, offering it tea and a place by the fire.  
  
He wondered if other Slayers were the same, if that love of destruction  
burned so deeply within all of them that they dared it to consume them.   
More important matters were at hand, however, and the smell of blood  
rising from the girl's hopelessly ruined ankle had made him hungry. His  
knife traced a thin line on her neck, and he leaned in to lap up the  
blood, inhaling the girl's scent and relishing the sweaty undercurrent  
of fear. Her blood filled up his senses, his fangs brushed against her  
neck, poised to bite, and that was when he felt the sharp stake pressing  
into his chest, piercing the skin.  
  
"Try it, and I'll rip your throat out," he murmured. His nose nuzzled at  
her ear, pushing beneath the lank curtain of her hair. His eyes rolled  
down far enough to see the narrow but sturdy fallen tree branch that she  
threatened his life with.  
  
"I don't feel like dying today, vampire," she replied. Her voice was  
thick with muffled suffering. "Do you? I do not think that you do. Back  
away, and perhaps you will live."  
  
The makeshift stake jabbed more insistently at his chest, slicing  
through muscle, coming dangerously close to its target, and he gasped in  
pain, shoving himself forcefully backwards and away, snarling as the  
branch slipped back out of the wound it had created. He lunged to his  
feet, furious now at his deceptively helpless prey, and moved in again  
for the kill.  
  
The crossbow bolt that buried itself in a tree not far from his head  
abruptly halted his forward motion, and Spike swung around to confront  
his new foe: the Slayer's old English companion, who had already  
reloaded his weapon with a fresh bolt and aimed it a bit more accurately  
this time at the vampire's heart.  
  
Spike darted to the side just as the bolt released, and it missed him by  
a hairsbreadth. The old man never missed a beat, tossing the crossbow  
aside and drawing another weapon from underneath the carriage seat. This  
time it was a cross -- and quite a large one, at that -- and a stake of  
his own. Spike risked a glance behind him and found that the Slayer had  
used her branch as a cane to lever herself to her feet, and now stood  
heavily on her good leg, pointing the branch in his direction. And to  
top it all off, the air was beginning to warm up, just slightly. Dawn  
was coming.  
  
Growling out his frustration, Spike silently admitted defeat, racing for  
his horse and scrambling into the saddle. He took once last look at his  
opponent, granted her a half-nod that was almost respect, reminded  
himself that it was a wonder he'd survived the encounter at all, and dug  
his heels into the mare's flanks, rushing her past the Slayer and back  
down the road. He pushed the horse hard toward the West, toward the  
ocean, toward the boats that would carry him to London.  
  
He would admit defeat, but this wouldn't be the last battle with his  
newly discovered breed of enemy. He'd crawl back to his family, but he  
wouldn't be on his knees for long. He'd seen that look in her eyes, like  
a deer chased down by wolves until it was too tired to run anymore. He'd  
seen it, and now the need for it burned somewhere in the pit of his  
stomach. The Slayer's blood was still sharp on his tongue, and it tasted  
like ash and addiction. Spike smiled, licked his lips, and pushed the  
mare faster into the night.  
  
--  
The End  
  
  



End file.
